


Wildfire Kiss

by alephthirteen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alpha Arya Stark, Alpha Daenerys Targaryen, Alpha Sansa Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Olenna Tyrell, Begins Prior to War of the Five Kings, Big Scaly Kittycats, But They Will Bite, Cersei Is SLIGHTLY Less Arrogant, Daenerys Had Someone Teach Her To Fight, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Dragons Are Fun, F/F, F/M, Genderbent Jon Snow, Grimdark Who?, Highborn Girls Just Want to be Ruined by Stark Sisters, More Like She Has Better Self-Preservation Instincts, Olenna Tyrell Playing Both Sides, Omega Jeoffrey Baratheon, Omega John Snow, Omega Margaery Tyrell, She Will Play Three Sides If Need Be, Size Queen Margery Tyrell, Sneaky Daenerys, Taking the Fun Bits of the Show and Inflating Them, The Blood of the First Men is Thick Indeed, The Direwolves Ship It, The Dragons Think Dany Can Do Better, The Starks Are SLIGHTLY Less Stupid, Valyrian Magic is a Bit More Complex, Valyrian Steel Swords, Whomever Her Dragons Shall Like Shall Marry the Queen, war is inevitable, winter is coming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephthirteen/pseuds/alephthirteen
Summary: The winter was brief, broken early.  The first day the skies cleared, three red comets burned across the sky.  Then the whispers came.  Dragons and barbarians.  The prince dead and the little girl arisen behind him.  Some say that Daenerys did the deed herself, others that the prince tried to claim her just-hatched dragons and learned the price.  Others say he met his end on a Dothraki blade after some insult or another.What matters is that a fifteen-year-old girl has command of three dragons and a horde of Dothraki screamers.  Some spies even report that she received dragonbone armor and weapons as wedding gifts.OROlenna Tyrell didn't get where she is without playing all angles.  If Margaery's hand in marriage puts a Tyrell on the throne, so be it.  If an alliance with the dragon queen does, so be it.  If wedding North and Reach does, so be it.ORCatelyn Stark brings her daughters south to arrange marriages--even Arya, gods help her--and barely manages it.  A certain rose decides that only a wolf will do.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	1. To Shoot a Partridge and Marry a Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where only a fool would allow a matchmaking to happen on Olenna Tyrell's home turf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tradition of noble families arranging marriages in thanks for a short winter is completely my invention. So is the idea that alphas with the Blood of the First Men (including Arya and Sansa) have more of a 'wolfy' feel than alphas in most ABO fics.

Highgarden is hosting this spring’s harvest Festival, thanks to some old favors called in and some of Tywin Lannister’s nastier retainers taking a permanent dip in Blackwater Bay. The law of the seven is clear: when winter breaks early, the great families meet and offer thanks for the mercy and ensure peace by offering their children in marriage.

The queen looks _livid_ at having to travel but more so she looks _terrified_ at the prospect that she will negotiate betrothals in a place where she can’t just have a throat slit on a word. Perhaps she fears for her queenly virtue. Not as if anyone will be interested in her cunt. She’s pretty enough, but the tales of her have spread so far that a boy with just-dropped balls wouldn’t risk his knot in her.

Cersei brought no fewer than a hundred spearmen and fifty nights and is close to powerless.

The Starks learned their lesson about riding south unprotected, so Lady Stark and her daughters traveled with a small army, six dozen knights, a broad column of footmen and a retinue of archers. The bastard daughter came too, with the excuse that Jeyne Snow is here as a handmaiden. Cat clearly can’t stand the girl, with her pale skin and black hair so like Ned’s. Probably hopes to marry her off to a blacksmith, or ‘forget’ her on the ride back.

Archers who’ve kept the kitchen stuffed with partridges shot in mid-flight. Ordinarily, one doesn’t hunt birds in flight and do so with bodkin point arrowheads meant for piercing a knight’s breastplate. These men and women have been doing just that, each afternoon, to prove they can hit a target less than the size of a man’s head that’s moving faster than a horse at a gallop. Probably doing it on Ned’s orders. He can’t threaten with the right without giving a gift with the left hand. Three feasts paid for with Northern arrows and skill have endeared him to her. It’s as subtle as the man gets.

Olenna declared the meat so delicious that the archers could be posted on the ramparts for easier hunting. At Catelyn’s word, death rains into the courtyard. The Lady of Winterfell looks uncomfortable, all the same. How different a creature than the sweet little Tully at the Erie all those years ago! Shoulders tight. Back straight. Face lined by cold air and sun off snow, but the lines cut into it are those of a mother, those of worry and laughter. Olenna would know. Catelyn carried herself differently back then, too. Perfumed herself in a way that only amplified the sweetness of her omega. Now she has a bearing and a gait more like her hulking brute of a husband than any omega Olenna’s met. Lady Stark’s manners are every inch the picture of decorum. The sensation of her presence is not ladylike in the slightest.

Per tradition, everyone brought their unbetrothed children of age or near it. Margery is on offer, of course. She’s done it nimbly but not a chair, or flowerpot, or seat cushion doesn’t have at least a whiff of her scent on it. Jeoffrey has been the talk of the hiding spots and dead-end paths in the hedges, but what’s being said isn’t exactly flattering. After the second cat went missing, Olenna put seven of her nastiest throat-cutters on lookout. They were to report back and keep him from misbehaving.

The boy hasn’t found any new toys since, but Olenna’s moved her and Margery’s spaniels from the kennels to their chambers just in case. The reports she got back from what they did find turned the last of her hair white.

Myrcella, though! A creature of gold and silver with quick, pale blue eyes and a quick smile. Such a cheerful, friendly girl that Olenna suspects someone passed their baby off on Cersei. Unlikely that any of her rancid blood flows in the girl’s veins. Even if a midnight switching did happen, a name’s a name.

Cersei has been avoiding the talks, except when doing so would tickle along the edge of declaring war. Probably hoping someone will offer a match for Jeoffrey before they hear him speak and that hiding Myrcella in her chamber will keep her unmatched.

If it weren’t for the fact that the alliances made here will be the one to stand against the Targaryen girl, Cersei would probably have sent the messenger’s head back. Her pride and her father’s gold can’t protect her from dragonfire any more than the Red Keep can.

For now, it’s Cat Stark and herself and a tray of lemon tarts. Lady Sand is off somewhere, probably atop Oberyn or else atop the stable boy who’s buggering Oberyn. The Dornish don’t have much use for subtlety when it comes to matters of fucking and killing. As she’s grown old, Olenna’s learned that subtlety is less useful than she thought, so she can sympathize from afar.

Olenna wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s grown as fond of the northern lady as she was of the girl she met, with her blunt warnings to her husband’s bannermen and her clear-eyed discipline of wild little Arya. Taking charge of her daughter’s upbringing rather than leaving her to Septas.

“I don’t think we have much to offer.”

“Nonsense, Catelyn. Sansa is second in line to the North. Might as well be first in line to the Riverlands, the Erie and the Stormlands put together.”

Olenna sips her wine as she tries to come up with a delicate enough phrase.

“Arya’s life will be in songs, one way or another.”

“Pity her husband,” Catelyn sighs.

“Or her wife,” Olenna reminds her.

Catelyn’s finger stops tracing the tea saucer.

“Wife,” she repeats under her breath.

“Girl’s an alpha, isn’t she? Rarer still, she’s capable in every way, so to speak?”

Cat scowls.

“Laundry girl told me.”

A motherly groan.

“It’s a blessing. Easier to find someone for Arya with both eyes open, don’t you think?”

Cat nods.

“Perhaps the cold limits your imagination,” Olenna teases. “Glad I could help.”

Cat picks up the parchment listing children, status and houses.

“Perhaps it does,” she agrees, looking at the list with new eyes.

She imagines Arya Stark wed to some blushing southern omega, dark eyes glinting as she lifts a hand to her lips. Perhaps that Dornish girl legitimized by her father—and truly treated as highborn out of a healthy fear of Dornish soldiers—with the mischief in her eyes and the never fully laced dresses.

Oh yes, this Festival might be very interesting indeed.

* * *

Olenna finishes her notes and beckons the raven closer. This one doesn’t live in the cages on the tower. It’s too important. The bird’s feathers smell of hot stone and ash and given how quick the replies come, it would not surprise her to hear that the Mother of Dragons has hidden herself and her children in the wild mountains to the south. It would explain the shepherds complaining about sheep missing a dozen or two at a time.

Perhaps she trained the bird to seek out dragons on the wing. Damn bird is clever enough to find a perch on the arm of a woman on dragonback, that’s for sure. It’s unlocked three different jars of candied fruits, each with a more complex clasp.

This Festival is about which alliances will be the ones to throw back the Mother of Dragons, which marriage beds will bring armies to the field to stand against her.

It seems the great families forgot how little armies can do against three dragons.

Gods help them if Daenerys finds someone to ride one of the others.

The Targaryens fucked enough whores that some bastards must still be running around, purges or no.

She slips the note into the bottle and lifts the bird to the window. Pouring herself a last bit of wine for the night, she sips it and retires. Thinking of her nephew’s slit throat, she curses the Lannister name.

The Queen of Thorns dreams of vengeance on smoking wings and humiliation measured in wedding bands and bitten necks.


	2. Staying Upwind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Margaery Tyrell is going to get a she-wolf's cock in her no matter what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit is based on how in the books, a distraught Robb Stark deflowers a noble girl at a castle they're sheltering in and marries her to make up for it. That's the loophole Margaery's after.

“Jeoffrey, grandmother?”

“Afraid so. Arya Stark went to the youngest Martell girl. Good match. Pair of poisoned knives. Fit right in down there. Robb Stark went to Cersei’s youngest cousin, curiously enough. Catelyn must be placing a bet against Tywin’s age and Cersei’s influence over the King. Asha Greyjoy isn’t on offer. More the sort to ride in with a net and take her pick, of course. You are to wed Jeoffrey, Barring any tragedies. Highgarden is so rarely a tragic place, wouldn’t you say?”

_In other words, she can’t have Jeoffrey killed before I would be riding away with him._

“Mother have mercy. What of the Stark bastard?”

“You’ll do no such thing, girl. Panic is no excuse to shame yourself like that.”

“What of the elder Stark girl? What about Sansa?” Margaery presses, hoping the flush on her neck isn’t too profound. Sansa acts meek as a lamb but simpler, thicker northern garb reveals more of the frame, even as it reveals less skin. She’s built long and lean and powerfully as her direwolf. Eyes just as icy-blue and unnerving.

“Sansa is unclaimed.”

“Barring any tragedies, that is.”

Olenna lifts a slice of glazed partridge to her lips.

“Exactly. Tragedies or _accidents,_ ” she adds.

_Accidents like a drunken Stark knotting me, ruining me before the ceremony._

“Thank you, grandmother.”

* * *

When she must worry and pace, Margaery prefers the halls near the kitchen. The smell is pleasant, the scullery maids and cooks are friendly—truly, not out of fear of her name—and the comings and goings mean that someone tells her grandmother where she is and _usually_ no one comes after her.

One of the matrons who makes the bread saw her distress and pressed a sweet loaf that came out a bit lumpy into her hands.

Lady Stark wouldn’t be worth speaking to about any last-minute changes. She’s aware that an oath was sworn for Margaery already. A patient shoulder to cry on, given her reputation. Not about to think ill of Jeoffrey. He’s the son of her husband’s oldest friend, after all.

The law of the crown can’t help her. Only the ancient Septon’s laws about what to do for a violated maiden. Were someone else to ruin her before her marriage to Jeoffrey, they could claim her as their duty on their honor and beg the crown’s pardon. With a huff of laughter, Margaery wonders how often maidens plot their own violation.

She can donate to the Sept once she’s saved from Jeoffrey’s madness on the tip of a thick northern spear.

Sansa is the only option, unless he wishes to break a second alliance to avoid Jeoffrey. And while Arya’s girlish energy will no doubt bloom into a fearsome woman, she doesn’t fancy bedding someone so much younger. Dangerous play to put a wedge between the North and Dorne, two kingdoms known for harsh weather and harsher warriors.

Once she’s knotted, the deal is done. Starks are honorable. Their words might as well be ‘honor over common sense’. Son or daughter, Lord Stark would have raised them to take responsibility for any mistakes, no matter the cost. By the same token, he will have trained them to _avoid_ making mistakes. His sons and alpha daughters especially, given that they’re as likely to _deflower_ as omegas are to be deflowered themselves.

The problem is to get the Stark girl’s knot in her in the next three days. She’s not close enough to her heat to count on her scent, however temping she and her omega both find the idea of a child with her curls and Sansa’s hair. If she succeeds, he can have that in two or three moons.

She wonders if the tales are true. Were the alphas of the first men different? Do wildling women still have the she-wolf in them, really and truly?

Starks are the blood of the First Men, everyone knows this.

So would a girl who’s half a Stark and half a Tully be as wild and lustful as the beasts in the trembling campfire stories? The fire-haired wildling bitches who raid fishing villages for coin and omegas? If it is not her nature, how can Margaery drag it out?

Each plan is worse than the last. Sneak past the guards and wake Sansa with her cunt? That requires a sort of prowess she does not possess. Get her drunk? Workable, assuming Sansa is weaker than her mother. Cat takes to wine as the fish on her family’s sigil and stays nimble and alert throughout. Match a Stark drink for drink and she might be too drunk to figure out how to spread her legs. Stage a situation where she might be rescued? Possible. No doubt bandits would cooperate for some free coin, but to offer up two highborn women—even if one is a stout alpha—has risks of its own.

Only one way.

* * *

Cersei invited Sansa for some advice. Practically your aunt, she had joked, as close as her husband the king and her father are. The queen has kept chambers in her massive wheelhouse rather than Highgarden. Rejecting hospitality is rejecting the gods, one of Sansa’s handmaidens had muttered.

“Do you know why you remain unwed, girl?”

“I do not, your Grace.”

The queens gray eyes flick to the untouched goblet.

“Several reasons. No one wants a wife who won’t drink. Are you a lady or a Septon?”

“A lady, your Grace.”

The queen’s lips curl up. Rather like a lion snarling, Sansa must agree.

“Then drink, girl!”

Sansa complies. The wine has a tang to it that she’s not fond of.

This was fruit once?

She preferred the mead her uncle Benjen brought down from Castle Black.

“You said there were others, your Grace?”

Another toothy sneer.

“You carry yourself as a man. Are you a man, girl?”

“No, your Grace. But in the north, alphas are…”

There’s no way around it.

“I’m capable. Some alphas of Northern blood are. I could put a child in someone, or carry someone’s child.”

A golden eyebrow rises.

“Barbaric, that. Well, I suppose it’s hopeless. A pillow biter won’t want something with tits and no man wants a cock in the way of putting something in your cunt. I can’t help you. Get out.”

Head spinning with advice and insults, Sansa stumbles out of the wheelhouse and picks her way along the sand-covered path between wheelhouse and drawbridge.

“Sansa!”

The voice snaps her out of her haze. Lady Margaery swoops down the lawn, walking quicker in skirts than Sansa could in riding trousers. Four Lannister men are behind her, their fancy red armor clanking.

The wind kicks up and her scent tumbles downwind into Sansa’s lungs. Sweet as honey and spicy as smoked ham. She steps close, her smile wide and her brown eyes hooded. Her scent deepens and darkens, the shift quite sudden. It reminds Sansa of the kennel-master’s daughter she bedded a fortnight ago. The same quick shift accompanied by the darkening of Margaery’s eyes.

“Lady Margaery .”

“Escort me inside?” the omega coos.

Sansa offers her arm.

“I simply must show you around Highgarden. I’ll be leaving soon,” she explains, her scent souring. “And I feel like sharing it will help me remember. Fool girl I am.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool,” Sansa blurts out. A metallic clank tells her that one of the Lannister men is nervous. Glancing at him as Ser Rodrick taught her, she sees his hand drift closer to his sword.

Sansa fumbles the red handkerchief from her sleeve. They’re well within range and half of the archers are on the west wall now. One wave of this and the Lannister men die.

“What would you like me to see?”

Margery laughs, soft and low.

“The gardens. I’ve always loved watching things grow. Is it true that there’s a weirwood on the grounds at Winterfell? I’ve never seen one. To think about a god being in a tree!” she gushes.

Sansa bristles.

“Father follows the old gods. He taught me, though I can’t say I follow them, exactly.”

“Hmm. I wasn’t mocking it. I want to see one, in person.”

“The Island of Faces has a forest of them, they say.”

“Gods,” Margery murmurs. “I should like to visit that. Pity I’m not marrying a northerner. The Gods give what they give, I suppose.”

“Hmm.”

Sansa finds her eyes drawn over and over to the ribbon on the front of Margery’s dress. Gods old and new, she is a lovely woman. The ribbon tempts and the expanse of creamy skin from neck to the tops of her breasts doesn’t slake the thirst Sansa feels; it makes her eyes prick to want _more_. To see more.

“Do you use long words in the north, or are you too thick for it?” Margery whispers, her eyes leading Sansa’s to a point on her skirts. Trying to ignore her cock hasn’t prevented it from growing so hard that it lifts the linen.

She wants to beg off for decency’s sake and take her leave, perhaps retire to her chambers to relieve the problem, but Margery has done nothing to offend—simply been beautiful and sweet. There are no excuses to be had.

So the doe-eyed omega with the creamy flesh and the honeyed scent leads Sansa through the garden, perfuming it more with her sweetness than the roses practically dripping from their tresses. Afternoon winds to sunset and to dusk. Hunger grows, but when Sansa suggests retiring to the feast, Margery grabs her and leads her to the kitchens.

A platter of lemon tarts awaits her.

Sweetness on her tongue and in her eyes and filling the air between them.

Gods old and new, Sansa wants her. For a lesser lord, she’d consider taking her, breaking the betrothal oath and damn all else. But Jeoffrey is the prince.

“Pity,” Margery sighs, glancing at the empty tray. She takes a bit of leftover lemon on her fingertips and writes on the tray.

‘Claim me.’

Her slender hand swipes the letters away before the bodyguards see her. Sansa doubles over and huffs.

“M’lady?” one of the guards asks.

“A woman’s matter,” Sansa grits out.

“I’ll see her to the privy and then to her quarters. Fetch the maester.”

None of the men move.

“Fetch the maester,” Margaery repeats, her voice hard. “Or Lord Tyrell hears that you left his guest in pain.”

“The queen’s orders…” the youngest man sputters.

“Highgarden garrisons two thousand, boy. The Starks have brought with them enough men to take a holdfast. Your queen brought eighty men, half of whom are staring at Northern arrows this very moment. Two Stark bowmen stand at each end of this hall, and six of our men besides. Fetch the maester, or I will throw you in the dungeons and have you whipped for a sinner who denied hospitality.”

“Go!” she snaps. “You two may stay.”

“Drop the cloth," she whispers.

“What?” Sansa hisses.

“The Targaryen girl is out there. War, sooner or later. Why not sooner?”

Sansa shakes her head. Instead she groans, loud and brokenly as she can.

“I’ll see her to the privy,” Margaery tells the men. “Wait for us at the door there.”

Sansa doubts that a lacquered oak door leads to a privy but she lets Margaery drag her on all the same. The omega throws it open to reveal a servant’s quarters with a pair of sleeping bodies on the simple bed.

“Out," she snaps. "Both of you. Take the window and the ledge.”

Two scullery maids–both naked–scramble to obey.

Margaery sighs.

“They’ll report to grandmother.”

“Not to Lord Tryell?”

She chuckles.

“You’ve heard my father sing. Does that give you the impression he’s the cleverness behind the Tyrell fortune?”

Margaery's deft fingers pluck at the ribbon holding her dress shut and her breasts spill out. Milky and round and shot with delicate veins. Hard as good cheese and hot in her hand when the omega grabs it and wraps it around her breast.

“Are you truly bleeding?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Good. I’d take you if you were but less messy this way.”

She fairly rips the shift off and shoves it off her hips where it pools on the rug. Bare and fragrant and dripping down her thighs, the Rose of Highgarden is something to behold. She slithers out of Sansa’s grip and lays on the bed, presenting her dripping cunt to Sansa’s eyes.

Sansa can feel the dampness weeping from her cock and the quiver of her cunt too and she’ll never have enough of looking at Margaery like this.

“Well?”

Sansa opens her mouth and finds no words.

“Gods, Sansa! We don’t have all night! Mount me, ruin me and bite me. Grandmother will see to it I’m married by sundown tomorrow.”

Sansa climbs onto the bed and holds herself over Margaery trembling frame. She looks so _small_ now and Sansa hates every drop of Northern blood. She’s too tall, and too lean for a proper lady and there’s wildling in her.

A dish so sweet is to be enjoyed, she decides. Melted on the tongue and swallowed slow.

She pinches the candle on the bedside and wraps the still-searing tip in the bedsheet so it doesn’t burn.

Leaning close to Margaery ear, she noses at her pulse and lines up her impromptu weapon. It goes in easy enough and three hard jabs suffice to snap the maidenhead.

Sansa presses her teeth to the juncture of jaw and throat and Margaery's breath leaves her in a hiss as she melts into the sheets.

“Please,” she whines.

Sansa bites. Warm blood graces her tongue and she thinks of fresh plucked berries and humid gardens after summer storms and the sweet musk of the woods in spring.

“You’re mine now, wild rose.”

She pulls the candle out.

“But I’ll enjoy my wedding night…”

She rolls off Margaery who scrambles to her feet and puts her hand between her legs. She looks from Sansa’s fully clothed frame, to the maiden’s blood weeping into her palm to the smeared candle. She scowls.

“I wanted a fuck, Stark!”

Sansa shrugs.

“You’ll have one. On our wedding night. Something pretty as you deserves to be taken slow.”

She stands and heads for the door, passing close on the way.

“In the hall or at council you’re my queen and I want your opinions. But in this space, you are my omega, do you understand?”

Her only answer is a needy whine.

“I’ll send the maester to examine you and in the meantime, I expect my cunning little rose can come up with a fanciful tale of Northern barbarism.”

It would be wise to be in her own chambers, with a larger guard, before this is discovered.

* * *

“My lady?”

Olenna huffs.

“I heard your report. Unless you’re here to offer male company, maester, I suggest you leave. Now.”

She presses a note into the scullery maid’s hand.

“Take this to my granddaughter, and send in the captain of my guard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cersei is a _bitch_ , huh?

**Author's Note:**

> ##  [Want to see the posh stuff? Want to see future chapters early?](https://rb.gy/b1fjhr)
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